


The Highest Price to Pay

by Oriontario



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Ep 6: Rare Species, M/M, Post-Episode 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriontario/pseuds/Oriontario
Summary: "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."Oh. So that's how it's going to be now, isn't it?--Jaskier makes good on his wishes and moves to the coast. What he didn't want, a certain white haired Witcher, eventually comes to make amends.
Relationships: geraskier - Relationship
Kudos: 46





	The Highest Price to Pay

It was a long journey back down the mountain, alone. Jaskier had been serious about moving to the coast (albeit at the time, he had wanted his white-haired companion at his side). In the beginning he had wanted to leave the White Wolf as far behind him as he could manage, but the rowdy pirates of the Skellige Isles had no place for him. He struggled to find the appeal in constant raids and ships thrown about to the whims and whistles of the wind and waves. He found the cry of the sirens alluring, but their sweet promises couldn’t tempt him to put down roots in the craggy rocks of the archipelago. He tried Faroe, then Spikeroog, then the first ship back to the Continent.

The bard settled in Novigrad for a spell, watching over his establishment, The Chameleon, with the eye of a harpy. Even that could not satisfy his appetite for long. Rumors cropped up that Jaskier had swiftly fled Novigrad in the dark of night (heroically dodging the wails of nightwraiths, though no one knew if the rumor was true) to Oxenfurt. No matter where he landed, the troubled troubadour still performed, but he flitted about like a moth to a candle. His light ended up being a small coastal village on the western edge of the Continent. His stories faded for a few years, but they were never snuffed out completely.

Jaskier walked along the soft rolling tide in the gentle moonlight, brooding. He was barefoot, shoes aligned neatly on the splintering edge of his cottage deck. He skirted around a cluster of washed up crab traps from a forgotten shipwreck and paused to look out over the waves, inky darkness that swallowed the reflection of the stars above. Absentmindedly, he ground a toe into the silty sand and kicked up a small shell. He turned toward the dim candles that softly illuminated the cottage in the distance and traced his path back. The beach around him was thick with patches of rich bloodmoss and the rocks that lined the shore were carpeted in slimy jet black mussels. Behind the outcrop of rocks sat little tidal pools full of starfish and clumps of seaweed that choked out small sea anemone and snails. The speckled brown sands were heavily encrusted with salt. As he neared the cottage, the spray of the ocean he breathed rolled over his tongue and down his throat. The gusts of wind picked and pulled at his overcoat, causing him to shiver slightly as his skin was painted with a thin layer of seawater. 

The cottage was not a thing of dreams. It slanted heavily to the left, held up by a puzzling array of driftwood. The roof was loosely thatched with dune grass and had a slight tendency to leak, despite the mud Jaskier desperately tried to smear over the holes. The frame of the cottage vaguely resembled a chinked log cabin, it had not held up well to the harsh sea and any attempt at painting the outside was long gone, replaced by a dull gray husk of rough wood with occasional splashes of moss. 

The outside reflected none of the flourishes of the inside. To the left of the door stood an ornate, well stocked pantry with goods from the likes of Toussaint. A small dining table with high-backed chairs sat to the right. The table was elegantly carved with small instruments around the feet and adorned with a brass candelabra dripping with old candle wax. A long plump couch was pushed up against a wall opposite a ladder that led to the loft which was draped in heavy curtains. The walls around the loft were stuffed with straw and old rags to keep the draft out. In the center was an oversized round bed that sat low to the ground, surrounded by a light delicate tulle canopy. On the bed lay plush velvety cushions and a thick woolen blanket, neatly folded.

The door creaked shut behind Jaskier as he tossed his overcoat onto a chair before sinking into the couch. He heaved a sigh and retrieved a towel from on top of a bookshelf that housed a collection of worn journals stuffed with ballads, the lute, and a hurdy gurdy in a miserable state of disrepair that Jaskier had yet to attend to after salvaging it from the ruins of a mage’s house on the outskirts of Novigrad. He hummed a small tune, watching the moon go down and in the wee hours of the morning he resigned himself to a few moments of sleep.

The next day Jaskier dressed himself in a pressed blue doublet with gold and red accents along the sleeves, slung his lute over his shoulder, and set off down the cobble road towards the village that sat more inland than his cottage, behind a low dune that was slowly pushed by the wind. The village was expanding, not from an influx of population, but rather to avoid the dune that every few centuries would envelop a peasant’s home. Jaskier had settled on primarily performing at the village tavern, and very occasionally would stray into the towns that lay past the sand and the dune and the tall pine forest to woo the crowd with an old ballad. He tried to introduce new songs, to erase the stinging memory of the Witcher, but nonetheless the crowd much preferred his older tunes. Jaskier had become accustomed to putting aside his old grudges in return for a few extra loaves of bread and a handful of crowns.

The innkeep nodded to Jaskier when he entered the dimly lit tavern. He was no stranger there and the company and noise on the slower nights was appreciated. The barmaid watched him darkly and with a hint of apprehension, _bards are always trouble, you hear me?_ , that was what her mother always said. Jaskier shot both of them a wink and settled in, leaning next to the tall brick fireplace near the end of the building. A roaring blaze crackled in the hearth, and the voice of patrons laughing, arguing, talking, bubbled around him. It was warm and comforting- the idea of being in a place that felt like home but held no expectations for him. 

A slight pitter patter of rain had been picked up over the few hours Jaskier had been playing. His shirt was slightly loose, as the fireplace had grown steadily warmer or the numerous pints of ale had taken their course. He was sitting now, on the edge of the hearth, eyelids heavy and half closed. The rain outside thumped a steady bass against the roof while the drops that worked their way through the thatching hit a rhythmic tikataka into a tin bucket. His eyes fluttered slightly with each bang of the door that rattled the shutters but he didn’t bother looking up. The most recent round of the clatter of the door swinging open and shut was proving to be no different until- 

“Geralt of Rivia!” The innkeeps voice boomed and echoed in the small tavern, shaking sand down from the rafters.

_Fuck._


End file.
